


Still Running

by okayokayigive



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayokayigive/pseuds/okayokayigive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as I love to think that Tentoo and Rose got their happy ending, part of me has always wondered: when you take a broken man away from everything he’s ever known, what’s to stop him from breaking even further? In the aftermath of the metacrisis, everything falls apart. <strong>Adult. Dark/broken Tentoo and Rose. Explicit non-con. This is NOT a happy tale, and Tentoo is a very fucked up guy. May be triggery; please read with caution.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Running

It started on a Christmas ship, where he fought a great battle and watched the world - okay, his hand - fall away.

No. Wait.

It started with a flash of light, a mole, a weakness, the pain of disbelief, the pride of watching her take a stand.

Except…well, no.

It started with “run”.

–

Years later, with a new face, new quirks, new friends, but always (as ever) the Oncoming Storm. Worlds away. A universe away. Still running. He supposes.

Running. Since the day he was stolen by a sexy thing full of wanderlust and determination.

Running, if he’ll admit it, long before that.

–

He looks up at the mirror from the dingy hotel sink where he’s been splashing cold water on his face; takes in the scruff that says he’s been running for days now, the puffy red eyes of tears left unshed, of angry words on yet another day in this life with Rose Tyler.

It started with Dårlig Ulv Stranden and “I could spend it with you,” a promise his double hearts had fantasized about but his single heart and escapist reality would never let him fulfill.

–

They tried to run together, for a time. New Zealand, Peru, the United Kingdom of Germany, the frigid outposts of Alaska, the humid markets of Bombay.

They could run from Norway, from London, from Torchwood, from Jackie.

They couldn’t run from the cyclone in his head.

–

She couldn't understand - or he wouldn’t let her try. Every gentle nudge pushed him further inside.

Eventually, the arguments outnumbered the running, outnumbered the “I love you”s, outnumbered the passionate moments.

That’s when he started running from her.

It started with slammed doors. Manic driving. Too many nights of pushing this new body’s alcohol tolerance beyond its limits.

The first time his running lands him in hospital, she sends him to “see someone”.

A diagnosis of bipolar disorder surprises no one.

He hates his medications. They numb his feelings, his passions, his libido…and yes, his desire to run.

He stops. They fight. He runs.

This time he’s gone for days.

–

When he runs back to her, sobbing with apologies and promise and words that really do need saying, her anger is eclipsed by fear. The fear of what she almost lost again.

He is not the same man.  
He is in every way the same man.

She takes him into her arms, into her mouth, into her bed, with a possession driven by anger and fear and want. _Her_ Doctor.

He responds as only he can, all teeth and tasting and babble, until he is claiming her right back, _his_ Rose, for all of time and space.

He is not the same man.  
She is not the same woman.  
They are always the same.

–

The next time he runs, he is gone for a week, or so the newspaper at his feet tells him. He thinks, remembers a bar. Multiple bars. Multiple cities. Multiple women. Strangers that somehow helped him feel less alone.

Women he paid to make him feel again, if only for a little while.

He returns to her, reeking of smoke and sex, bruises from too-tight restraints peeking out from under his filthy cuffs.

His gaze tells her everything she needs to know.

She is disgusted, distraught. Wants to know what this is, if he’ll ever stop running.

He lowers his eyes and moves into the guest room, the farthest he can run from her in their own small flat.

–

He catches his own gaze in the mirror. Wonders if the other him ever thought he could possibly turn into this. Or maybe he knew, and thought Rose would be his salvation.

–

The last time they fought (the very last time, he thinks), he tried not to run.

He should have.

She was resigned. Ready to watch him walk out, probably for the last time.

She stopped fighting.  
He needed to feel.  
Needed her to feel. 

Spun her against the wall, crushing her face, wet with tears, into the plaster.

Reached beneath her skirt and tore her knickers from her, using the other hand to stop her struggles, pinning her arms above her head.

Ignored her cries, her questions, her fresh tears as he yanked down her zip and thrust into her, brutal and unforgiving.

Fucked her with every ounce of blood and anger and revenge bottled up from the lives he’d lived, the lives he remembered, the worlds ripped from him.

Lost himself in the taking. Lost track of his hands, his motives, his breath. All lost in the thrusting, the possession, the tightening, the feeling.

–

Moments later. Maybe hours. A hand on his face. Shaking. Hesitant. Familiar.

A noise. A single word. “Doctor?”

Oh, _fuck_.

Rose.

His Rose.

Not a stranger, a professional, a willing yet random fuck.

His Rose.

“Doctor? What do you…? Why…?”

Before she can finish her questions, he is gone. Keys in hand, zip still down, barefoot in the car and running again.

–

It starts now. His life without Rose. Here, in this shitty motel, a dirty white oxford and the pants and trousers he wore.

His Rose.

Knew she would never understand.  
Knew she would never forgive.  
 _Should_ never forgive.  
Would never be His Rose again.

–

If he had bothered to look, had for a moment glanced at the sky, he’d have seen the stars winking out, one by one. (Again.) But he didn’t. He was too busy running.

He would forever be running.

–

Six months later. A starless night. The California coast.

He is near oblivion, one breath away from passing out along the shoreline, when he hears an impossible noise.

An impossibly familiar noise.

And before him stands a man he’s never been.

“She’s alright, you know.”

“What?”

“You brutalized her heart. Never mind what you did to her body - we’ll get to that later. You hurt her so badly that her pain tore holes in the fabric of time. Every universe. Mine, yours, and all the others. Falling apart because of what you did to her. What you did to _my Rose_.

I tried to forget, to move on without looking back, because she had you. So off I went, fighting the good fight, the Silence and the Daleks, and taking care of other people’s memories, because you were taking care of mine.”

This man, this other him, kicked at the sand before looking him straight in the eyes.

“I wanted to take you from her, remove us from her mind so that she would never have to re-live what you did. Turn you in to local law enforcement, haul you off to the Shadow Proclamation.

But she wouldn’t let me.

And so I’ve come to tell you: stay away from her. For now, forever, and for the rest of the time that you have. Stay away. Because the Bad Wolf has broken. I can hear her cry. I will come.

Oh, and one more thing:

Run.”


End file.
